Lazy Sod
by iminyourimagination
Summary: John arrives home to find Sherlock has injured himself rather badly, and is not himself, not saying a thing about what has happened and John has to find out what he's done. 7th chapter up now. explanation for such a long time to upload inside :
1. Chapter 1

'SHERLOCK!' John practically fell through the door as he dragged 6 bags of shopping up the stairs. 'Who was that guy at the door? Sherlock?'

He had a feeling that Sherlock would be working on something new because there was a huge amount of clattering in the kitchen as he walked up and there was no violin playing to be heard, though he wouldn't have put it past Sherlock to play whilst chucking harmful chemicals about the flat.

'STOP BANGING ABOUT AND HELP ME UNPACK-what the _bloody hell _have you done to yourself this time?'

Sherlock was standing there in his suit trousers and his new grey shirt with one sleeve rolled up to the elbow, blood trickling down to his hand and smothered all over the sleeve. He looked even more pale than usual, and his general air of importance and higher authority had seemed to vacate his presence. He looked at John, whose chest was still heaving from his recent trek back to Baker Street, then at the shopping, squinting his eyes and scanning him down. John sighed and stepped forward, but Sherlock flinched slightly. This was unusual for him, who was always suave and never scared at anything. John frowned.

'Well? Going to explain why you have blood all over your arm?'

Sherlock turned his back to him and started back to the kitchen, but john noticed the problem. He had a big gash on the other side of his arm and it was leaking blood badly, his palm smeared with it and the side of his shirt where is arm had touched was also stained.

'...what the-'

'NO, it wasn't purposeful and NO it's not clean or treated, as you might have guessed. It hurts like hell on earth though so please do something about it.'

'You lazy sod!' John smiled slightly and began to walk over to him. 'You wait for me to get back just so I can-'

'No, I have chemicals all over my hands so I can't touch anything, including my own possibly infected wound.'

'What chemicals?'

'the explosive kind...' Sherlock grumbled and pushed past John to the sofa.

**...**

**Should I carry this on? I'm planning a little bit of slashy stuff, but nothing too sickly or too graphic either. Please answer in reviews and I promise I'll write back **


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: HELLO AGAIN. I know I should write more in my chapters but short snippets is more my style and it's more fun that way. I've decided no slash, but I might do a different one with a bit in. This is purely friendship based.

Enjoy

R

...

Once John had eventually calmed Sherlock down from his previous clankings in the kitchen, he decided to sort the mess he'd make of his arm out. Sadly, Sherlock did not want to be so cooperative and insisted he was fine, skulking off to his bedroom, though ten minutes later John managed to drag him back to the sofa by his good arm for proper treatment.

'So, are you going to tell me who that man at the door was?' John's eyes traced Sherlock's stone-dead face, his gaze pointed to the rather large gash in his arm. John had cleaned the mess, including the smashed test tube and the big machete blade Sherlock had tried to hide in is rush to cover up the conundrum as he heard John stumble through the door.

Honestly, he wasn't that stupid. He was bound to notice the wound was too big to be caused by a simple gash from broken glass or a cut from a sharp corner...no, this was the work or a huge sharp metal thing that looked like an oversized meat cleaver.

'I don't see why I should...' Sherlock sniffed, and then took a sharp intake of breath as John dabbed antiseptic onto the wound. It stung and tingled, which Sherlock really did not appreciate, and he began to shift uneasily in his seat, tapping his foot rapidly.

'You should because I am now cleaning _this_' John nodded down at the gash 'which is probably his doing!' he exclaimed. Sherlock shrugged blankly, John sighed and went back to treating Sherlock's arm. They sat there for the next ten seconds in silence, one of them occasionally flinching whilst the other jerked backwards, until the taller of the two could stand the quiet no longer.

'So! How was she?'

'Who?' John asked, vaguely alarmed as the deafening silence was cracked by his low, rumbling tones.

'Your new _woman_? Is she adequate enough for you?'

'what!' John gawped. She was barely a woman. She smiled at him in the supermarket and slipped her number into his coat pocket: the coat that he had thrown onto one of the hooks on the walls downstairs when barging through the hallway.

'DON'T ask how I know that. I have no desire to show off today.'

'Seriously: What is wrong with you?' John put his soaked cotton wool down but still held Sherlock. He had a feeling that the other man wanted to move from his grasp any second now. He was jigging about and was looking over to the door, then at the clock, and then back at the door again over and over. 'Nothing. He just came to "fix the dishwasher", but since we don't have one, I sent him on his way.'

'What, with a bloody nose and a black eye?' John said accusingly. 'I do not want to have to squeeze every last piece of information out of you, but I might have to if you carry on like this! You are ridiculous sometimes!' John stood up angrily to get the first aid kit from the kitchen table when he saw Sherlock's vacant expression, misty eyes and dry lips. He was rather pale...

'I'm an idiot.' His voice was quiet from behind John, who paused in his step towards

'Finally you admit it. I'm not the only one then?'

'No, John, I've done something bad.'

By this point, John was more than a bit worried. Sherlock looked practically green and had slumped on the sofa.


	3. Chapter 3

Ok so it's been a while and I couldn't leave you all hanging

Also, sorry for any mistakes in this story (e.g. previous chapter 'his step towards' which was left blank. That meant to end with 'the kitchen'), I'm no good at checking through my stuff. I notice the bad bits straight after though.

Anyway, Viola!

R

...

'I do wish you'd not be such a drama queen sometimes...' John sighed as he shook his head, stock still in the middle of the doorway. Sherlock did look rather pale, but to be honest, the 'bad' thing probably wasn't that awful to John: maybe the wrong chemical or some silly mistake by using the wrong ingredient from the fridge (i.e. toes, this time), whereas stealing money from Mycroft and accidentally attracting the attention of several trained assassins was nowhere near important to his '_superior brain'. _

_'..._that..._knife_, what's it doing there again?'

'Errr...' Sherlock made some non-commital noise which meant he had no interest in answering.

'Sherlock.' John said warningly, still with his back turned. 'Ok, at least tell me about the gash.'

' I needed to see how long a certain strain of bacteria thives on a dead body compared to a live one... and, since i had no volounteers...'

John didn't believe him. Sherlock could lie to anyone face to face on a day to day basis but John, who had nothing to say. Yes, it was dangerous, but at the same time hardly surprising if it was true.

John decided that tea was the best option: his number one consultant. He filled the kettle in the overcrowded sink (he HAD to get some spring cleaning done) and clicked it on, popping a teabag into his favourite striped mug and getting a teaspoon from the drawer beside him.

'Want a cuppa?' John called from the kitchen. 'Probably not...' he mumbled, running hot water into the basin in the sink.

Silence.

'Sherlock. SHERLOCK.' John ran back through the door to see a sweaty, pale and half dead looking man lying, sprawled all over the couch, seemingly unconscious.

He slapped his friend's cheek in a feeble attempt to wake him up. He didn't especially want to hit him round the face, but any consciousness was not a good sign, though nothing improved once done. Doctor mode set in as John checked Sherlock's pulse: slow. Dull. Uneven. Worryingly so. John didn't dare move him, and since Sherlock was about two heads taller than John anyway, he'd best not risk it. He then checked Sherlock's breathing: shallow. Unsteady.

The only thought John could muster up was that maybe there was some chemical Sherlock had got on himself or the glass was unclean, but something as bad as this must've happened a while back for him to fall ill now.

What could Sherlock have cut himself on apart from the large knife anyway? John flung himself back into the messy kitchen to see the same piled miscellany of spread-out vials and test tubes, flasks and even a Bunsen burner with several toothpicks and a fork jammed in it. Impatiently, he began to dodge around the table, scanning for any clues as to what the hell Sherlock had let enter his bloodstream.

And there it was, in plain view, a single, smashed conical flask with a putrid brown liquid sloshed all over the place; on the counter, the weighing scales and even what looked like an eyeball, which appeared to be partially eroded and rotten in some places. John gagged and grimaced.

If it had damaged the eye in that way, god knows what it was doing to Sherlock now.

'You absolute arsehole!' John yelled as he covered the experiment up with a plastic bag and covered his mouth. 'You said-ugh! Right, I'm calling an ambulance.' John hissed, feeling stupid for yelling at someone who couldn't hear him.

'Next time, you get the shopping...'

...

Will find time to carry this on at some point, but for now, hope you enjoyed! I will always reply to your reviews


	4. Chapter 4

Again, I apologise for any bad mistakes n stuff. This fanfic is not what I usually do, as I normally just spill out short snippets that could fit into their everyday life, but this is a little different. Ickle bit late but who cares!

R

...

'What happened?'

'Er,' John started, stumbling with his words. How did he explain Sherlock to this woman from the emergency services without making him sound like a psycho? She looked up at him expectantly as she and her colleague began to lift Sherlock up from the floor onto a stretcher. 'I mean, it looks like the wound has already been treated, are you a doctor?'

'I, well, it's not-' John started, but then the sound of the door opening downstairs caught their attention.

'John, dear, are you there? Mr, erm, Lestrange-'

'Lestrade-' said a familiar voice.

'- is here.' Mrs Hudson called from the corridor, now padding slowly up the stairs with a heavy clomping steadily behind her. The paramedic turned round as John began to move swiftly towards the lounge door, stepping cautiously around Sherlock's inanimate state. 'Hello, Dr. Watson, got your text!' Lestrade seemed weary but oddly satisfied.

'And what, exactly, are you grinning about?'

'What's he done this time, got his riding crop wedged up hi-oh.' Lestrade reached the landing and immediately caught sight of Sherlock on the stretcher.

'Yeah, they had to put him on the floor because they couldn't examine him with a coffee table and a sofa in the way.' John folded his arms and sighed as the pale, thin face with closed eyes and a dry mouth caught his gaze. Sherlock looked even worse. Was it something he'd put on the wound? All he'd used was antiseptic with a soothing lotion.

'But couldn't you have done that?' Lestrade frowned. John shook his head. He was so reluctant to get involved because if something did go wrong and it was his fault, he'd never live it down.

'So you are a doctor then?' said the female paramedic, now looking irritated and quite angry and John, who just ignored her. 'Sir, we really need some more information on the patient if weare going to give him a proper diagnosis at the hospital.' Said the other male paramedic, who was looking extremely annoyed that they were being ignored, trying to lift Sherlock but failing miserably because Mrs. Hudson, John and Lestrade were standing in the way.

'Oh, um,' John startled.

'Name, age, has he been vulnerable to any harmful substances?'

'Sherlock Holmes, erm...' how old was Sherlock? He certainly didn't look any older than 35, but too well-presented to be in his 20s. How did he not know this? They'd been sharing a flat for almost eight months now and the subject of his birth date had not even crossed Sherlock's lips.

'31, and probably, yes. Knowing Sherlock, most likely.' Lestrade finished for John.

The paramedics nodded and checked his arms. John frowned. Sherlock didn't do drugs. Not anymore. Mycroft had mentioned Sherlock's earlier days where he needed something better than caffeine to keep his mind stimulated, but he'd never even touched a needle or a powder since he'd been living with John.

'Don't bother checking for needle pricks. He doesn't do drugs.' Lestrade shook his head, frowning. Of course Lestrade knew about Sherlock's past tendencies, but he wouldn't dare mention it at a time like this.

'Well, I'm afraid we can't be certain of it without a police or medical record, sir.'

'It's Detective Inspector,' Lestrade looked bored as he drew his badge from his coat pocket 'and, believe me, I can vouch for him for now, so can you please get on with getting him to the ambulance?'

Lestrade gave a glance at his watch and then looked expectantly at John, who pursed his lips and watched the stretcher with Sherlock's long body get carried out uneasily through the door and down the rickety staircase. He was extremely grateful for Lestrade's help with the little trauma that occurred with Sherlock, but explaining it was just as difficult as Sherlock was after four cups of coffee. 'It's a long story.'

'I have approximately one hour, so make it short.' Lestrade raised his eyebrows.

John sighed, and then gave in.

...

I will always reply to your reviews :)


	5. Chapter 5

PLEASE READ

My laptop had a seizure and had to be repaired. I haven't had it for, what, 3 months? AND THEN my account had a nervous fit so it's all been a bit higgledy piggledy at the mo. I actually know what is going to happen now but I keep forgetting to write it up!

R

...

'I don't know.'

'what?'

'I honestly don't know! Do you _ever know_ with him?'

'But you're his flatmate,' Lestrade picked up an apple from the bowl on the coffee table and took a bight. With his mouth full, he continued 'you're supposed to know these things...' he put a hand on his side and skimmed his eyes around the room. John pulled a frustrated face and ran his fingers through his hair, undoubtedly not for the first time that day.

'If I knew, I would've told you by now, don't you think? If I _knew_ I would have stopped him.'

'No one stops the _illustrious _Sherlock Holmes, John.' Lestrade almost smirked. Why wasn't he taking this seriously? What could possibly be so funny for him to giggle...

At a crime scene...

John looked desperately for something to give him inspiration for words, but nothing, no matter how many damned things were in the flat, could have given him the right trigger. The only thing he could think of was the packet of lonely, half empty cigarettes lying helplessly on the floor like a ladybird which had been overturned onto its back.

He frowned. They were hidden. They were hidden in Mrs. Hudson's flat downstairs. How the hell-?

'Well, you'd better clear off. I'm calling in the forensic team-' Lestrade started, chomping on the apple and turning his phone on. He seemed far too relaxed about the situation.

'I don't think I will. This is my flat. I'll go and see him later!'

'Good on you.' He gave a quick, uncommitted smile and then focused back on his phone. He then looked up and gave the skull on the mantelpiece a stare 'I mean, he'd only want you to go and see him now: weep over his lifeless body, hold his hand, and say your goodbyes-'

'Shut up, Greg,'

'Nah, I'm serious! He's a prick!' he laughed sceptically. John really was NOT in the mood for his happy-go-lucky attitude. Why was this like comedy to him? He grabbed his jacket off the back of the sitting room door and began to shrug it on.

'Oh, no pun intended of course.' He grinned, but the look on John's face signified him to don a serious tone once more.

'John, stop. Listen to me, right,' Lestrade held his hand out to stop him from heading towards the door. 'No one can deny that he's brilliant,' Lestrade looked like he really wanted to deny it 'but sometimes he's a class A, 24 carat prat and nothing can change that. You want to know why I'm laughing? Because he's _done this before_.' He said, almost bored with the conversation, as though it as too familiar with him. 'That's why they all look at him funny whenever he comes in to the station. He's a genius, but they all know that he did something stupid, and people like Donovan won't let him live it down.'

John froze. He had always assumed Sherlock went into Scotland Yard so he could show off or make such a reappearance in a way that people treated him as their god or something. Sherlock acted irate when he was there at the best of times, which is what John thought he was doing deliberately, but he never realised that Sherlock really hated it.

John exhaled heavily and relaxed his posture. 'don't call the forensics in. It'll only get Anderson excited that he's gone and done it again. I'll help you look around. It is my flat, after all. As long as you don't tell.'

'You're not trained.'

'I don't need to be or want to be. It's quite obvious what he's done, and all we need to do now is find our evidence.'

'I think I should at least get one person from the squad in though.'

'Someone that doesn't know where he lives, what he's done in the past or has never met him,'

'That'll be hard.' Lestrade snorted

'Well, if you can't manage that then no one comes in here apart from us and Mrs. Hudson.'

...

I will always reply to your reviews by the way, do any of you lot like Pride and Prejudice? Just wondering...


	6. Chapter 6

Hello again. This is almost the EPIC FINALE to my NOT-SO-EPIC-BUT-A-BIT-CRAP story. I know I'm not good with the whole 'uploading new chapters regularly' thing but I am a fail when it comes to doing things and finishing them on time... which is why I fail at homework too!

...

John knew what Sherlock had done. Even though it could have looked like an accident, and that the gash could have been from the glass flask, he probably made it look that way so that they didn't suspect he was up to something dodgy again. There was no doubt about it, but mentioning it would be admitting his own defeat in lack of trust for his flatmate and all around best friend, which is not something anyone wants to do, but, secretly, John knew it could not be helped. The worst bit would be seeing the smug 'I-told-you-so' look on Greg's face.

He was on his hands and knees, looking under the chairs and table in the living room area for anything suspicious. Lestrade and the unfamiliar woman he'd called in were scouring the upstairs rooms in case John himself was somehow smuggling drugs in the flat for Sherlock, which he knew full well he wasn't, but the reply to his protest was 'It's protocol, I'm afraid.' John smirked. Lestrade shouldn't even be involved with Sherlock's life, let alone letting him assist him in his profession... 'Protocol...' he scoffed to himself as he pulled out what seemed to be a nasty looking rubber glove from underneath Sherlock's chair and sniffed it warily. The grimace on his face, he decided, was not even half accurate in summing up how foul it smelled.

One thing he DIDN'T miss about Sherlock was his terrible habits and those discarded experiments he lay strewn about the house like the magic house-cleaner fairy was going to come and pick them up after him, tidying as he went... that was usually Mrs. Hudson's favourite hobby apart from watching daytime TV, baking and spying on them and their neighbours whilst pretending to be doing the crossword in the newspaper.

Picking up the machete knife thing he'd seen earlier, he slid it back into Sherlock's desk draw by his side. It had no blood on it, whic relieved his worry. Maybe it WAS just there from earlier and Sherlock hadn't done anything to himself deliberately like he'd said. Maybe it was just an accident with the glass and he didn't want to own up to being clumsy and wrong.

He sighed, hoisted himself up off the floor and stretched his back. He then walked achingly slowly towards the kitchen area as he wished to linger away from it as long as possible: as usual, it was a tip, and it would take him a good hour to survey and find anything interesting or vaguely important. It wasn't his turn to tidy it up because it was NEVER his own mess, but he then realised he didn't have to, or more he couldn't, because the police needed the 'crime scene', or whatever they were referring to it as, to be in the exact same condition.

Throwing the glove into the bin, John looked at his own gloves. He had to wear them; Greg practically rammed them on his hands and shoved him in through the door. They were latex: the crappiest, most uncomfortable stuff in the world that you could wear on your skin, he decided. Worse than spandex, too. The amount of times he had to peel it off his hands when working as a field medic and his hands were sweaty and consequentially extremely smelly made him loathe them even more.

Sherlock never used them. Only once or twice, where he wanted to preserve his own evidence because he was fixated, would he put them on for the minimum amount of time. If he were to be forced to wear them by someone, he'd put them on and then rip them off again when their back was turned. John grinned at the thought and headed over to the sink where he found the jar of what looked like woodlice that had been killed with chlorophyll _again. _The same one he swore he'd threw out yesterday.

Next to the sink there was a pile of dishes and a dishcloth which was fairly new, but had burns and holes in already, which Sherlock had probably used to mop up any acid he'd managed to spill on himself.

This was something that John worried about. Sherlock was, as many people knew, reckless. He knew that he could kill himself with fumes or acid ingestion or god knows what, but he never would listen to John constantly reminding him, and would put his safety glasses on and set alight things that were made for cooking, or teddy bears with sad eyes that had never done anything wrong. This was what John worried would finally be the death of Sherlock Holmes.

Shuddering at the thought, he covered his face with his hands and turned so that he could redirect himself towards the main 'experiment hazard bench' or the countertop on which his flatmate dumped all his random science junk.

Deciding swiftly to pull himself together, dragging his feet to a standstill and surveying the mess in its entirety, he soon noticed three identical objects covered in papers and books of people he'd never heard of before, right next to the horrible flask-mess which he had chosen to ignore (though it was hard, sine what used to be a solid was obviously now almost a liquid). He delicately moved the papers to check that he hadn't seen what he thought he had, but, to his dismay, he had thought correctly.

A low growl sounded and John grabbed them from the table. He didn't care anymore about the policemen standing just outside the door, or the two inspectors upstairs, OR the fact that he could get arrested for disturbing the evidence and causing a little bit of a mess.

He slipped them into a little evidence bag and then into his shirt pocket, and grabbed his jacket from the door hanger. As soon as he swung out of the door a flush of dread filled him and his heart thudded to the bottom of his stomach. The policemen. They would check him.

He inched his way down the stairs and tried to get a good look through to top window of the front door to see if the policemen were there. He couldn't see anyone, but he wouldn't take the chance. He had to find out where they were.

As soon as he put his foot on the next step, he heard Mrs. Hudson's laugh and a chorus of rather manlier ones and he soon realised that they were checking her apartment, too. He gave a huge sigh of relief and practically ran down the rest of the steps and out of the door, laughing to himself as he went.

_On the way to the hospital to visit S._

_JW_

Someone had some explaining to do.

...

AS ALWAYS reviews are VERY much appreciated and even though this fic hasn't been very top-notch it's always good to know what people think, good or bad, or just advice!

Thanks for being patient... but that's what the whole Sherlock fandom has to be. PATIENCE... UGH COME ON SERIES THREE!


	7. Chapter 7

So: FINALE PEEPS. Sorry, sorry and sorry again for my lack of on-time-ness and I keep saying it but I truly am crap at it. ALSO never trust me to upload regularly with anything. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED

...

John stepped slowly towards the bed in hope of not waking his dozing companion. It dawned on him as he sat down that this was the first proper time he'd seen Sherlock sleep without himself forcing it onto him. Every time Sherlock had been drugged, John had made him sleep. Mycroft always said the only one who could make him sleep was their mother when they were younger, and even now he had no control over his little brother. Being around ten years older than him gave Sherlock another basis to insult him.

The clinical bright white of the separate ward that he was placed in must have been a bit of an obstacle when it came to sleeping, but John knew that Sherlock was too konked out to have found sleeping difficult. He probably had no caffeine in his system anymore and whatever solution he had ingested probably helped him on the drowsiness front.

The rain clattered haphazardly against the window, which was the only visible source of any other colour: dark blue clouds loomed dangerously close and the dark sunset far away had a feel of winter to it. John winced as he saw his friend: thin, pale (pal_er_), tired and dark circled eyes gave the impression that he had recently just passed away. John gave a shudder and closed his eyes, massaging them to work away the dry, scratchy feeling and at the same time, trying to contain the fuzzy tingling that was working its way up through his nose and behind his eyes.

'Twat.' He gave a half chuckle and saw that Sherlock's bare chest was rising and falling slowly. Why was he bare chested? Lord only knew, but it was helpful in the fact that John could see that he was breathing more easily than if he were clothed. He looked out of the window as he propped himself up against the sill and sighed.

'Says the one who let Lestrade nosey about my flat.' Sherlock croaked from behind him and gave a wheezy snigger.

John jumped and took a sharp intake of air, so much so that he coughed.

'I repeat again: twat. You scared the living crap out of me, Sherlock!' he released his breath and clutched the chair by his side that faced the bed to steady himself as he tried to relieve his nervous system of an upcoming seizure.

'And it's _our flat, _not just yours. I _do _pay for it as well, you know.' John may as well have fallen into the seat. He let his head roll back and he suddenly felt very tired.

'I moved my stuff in first. I get first say.' Sherlock said swiftly as though it was a fact as well known as that the earth moves round the sun.

'Child.'

There was a pause, and Sherlock closed his eyes and swallowed dryly. John lifted his head. He pulled out te plastic evidence bag from his pocket and wiggled it about in the air so Sherlock's tired eyes could focus on it and make him realise he was being far too obvious.

'Just be glad he didn't find these. I'm not going to ask _how _you got these.' He cleared his throat and looked straight at Sherlock so that there was no way he could look away.

'Why did you do this to yourself, Sh-'

'Why did you let him in?!' his eyes burst open again incredulously and gave him a stern look as if to say '_shut up now and I won't call you something terrible._'

'I didn't _let him in, _HE let HIMSELF in!' John argued. 'And this is beside the point: what did you do to yourself this time?'

Sherlock was still for a moment, then had a slightly cocky look on his face and opened his mouth.

'No, answer me truthfully. Please.'

Sherlock's mouth snapped shut again. His head flopped back and he stared at the ceiling. He knew john would wait for as long as necessary if he had to, and would not give up at asking until Sherlock did something so formidable that he couldn't possibly think that this matter was more important anymore... and since he was a long way away from being healthy enough to do that any time soon, he gave in.

'I got bored...'

'Clearly.'

'No, no, really bored, John. My head... it wasn't-' he gave a violent but broken sounding cough '...I wasn't feeling... _challenged._ I needed something more. A boost, anything!'

John scowled disapprovingly but let him carry on. He knew his face looked pained and didn't care if Sherlock saw it.

'And since you've either stolen my... stash, banned me from buying anything like that or prevented any dealers or tobacco sellers from selling me anything to keep me going, I doubted coffee would do me well. I decided to try and replicate something along the lines of a- a stimulant.'

'Like cocaine.' John said irritably and crossed his arms. His patience was vanishing.

'No! Well, yes. I needed something... _something to keep my brain from starving_!' he hissed and coughed again.

'So the bacteria thing was actually nonsense. As I thought.'

'Pretty much.'

'Sherlock Holmes, you need to pull yourself together; you do not need ANYTHING that physically changes you in the way cocaine does to get your brain going!' John knew this for a fact: he was talking to a man in possession of one of the greatest minds in London. 'You're going for the lazy option but doing it in the most difficult and dangerous ways, if that's possible! How long did you know after you'd taken it that you'd put the wrong thing in it?'

'I didn't TAKE it. Not deliberately. I spilled it on the counter and it got into the cut on my arm... which I got when the glass smashed and I cut myself on a huge shard from the flask. Happy now?' he did fake jazz-hands to declare the end of his explanations.

'Answer the question.'

Sherlock huffed. 'Ten minutes and 48 seconds. That's how long I felt sick for and I'd only '_taken_' it about ten minutes previous. The stuff I put in was too powerful; that's why the effects and illness were almost immediate.'

'So why was that ruddy great big machete lying on the floor then?'

'No idea...' Sherlock looked casually at his nails.

'It was that man's, wasn't it?'

'Oh, no, that one was mine. He took his with him... along with several broken fingers.'

John ran his hands through his hair and began thinking heavily... if he'd left it any longer, Sherlock wouldn't be here right now: he'd be down with Molly in the morgue. He remembered the needly pricks he'd seen a couple of times on Sherlock's arm and when asked, he's dismiss it and tell John to leave it alone...it made him realise that there'd be no way he could ever find out what exactly Sherlock managed to get into his bloodstream, or how he did it ( John had a feeling he just blamed it on the cut, and that it may have been deliberately taken at that time), just by _asking, _but he knew that he could always have the chance to force it out of him if needs be.

Sherlock looked down at his hand where the drip was attached and he winced, looked away and grimaced.

'I hate needles.'

...

Fin.

...Whooo! anticlimax! Thanks again and I hope you enjoyed.

I had nothing real planned for this so I just let it flow...Sounds wrong...Ok, ignore me please.

I WILL ALWAYS ANSWER YOUR REVIEWS SO BE NICE PLEASE BECAUSE I DONT WANT TO NOT BE NICE BACK.

If you are nasty, I will not fail to give you an equal amount of rude in return.


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